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DUTCH BROADSTREET

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SHABBY STREET BOOKS

I'm standing at the ass end of an industrial complex surrounded by an ocean of mechanized noise and bustling activity. My Latina stepmom is squatting in front of me in a pink velour jumpsuit with the generous crack of her onion booty staring me in the face.

Mami's got her full red lips wrapped steel drum tight around my cock and she's giving serious dome.

Someone fires up a band-saw and the blade whirs.

My breath catches.

Mami gurgles.

Workers load box trucks and hurl machine waste into dumpsters. My stepmom gluck-glucks on my giggle stick and I stave off my growing urge to spray paint her tonsils.

A siren goes off in one of the bays. I brace myself against the brick wall behind me.

The band saw persists, my hands absorbing its reverberation through the wall.

Mami slurps loudly, spit dangling off her chin as she rubs my shaft on her lips.

Someone shouts, “Empty!”

Mami returns my wang to her mouth, throating my helmet.

My knees shake as the siren wails and my cock swells. And just as my stepmom cups my balls with her tepid palm and I start to spurt, a roach coach pulls into the alley, announcing itself with a prolonged horn blast.

I explode on my Latina stepmom's face as an army of uniformed factory workers scurry out toward the breakfast truck. Mami smiles in satisfaction, squeezing my thighs approvingly.

This was not something I could have done a year ago or even a month ago. And I couldn't have done it without Olivia Lafferty.

I hadn't been outside in six months. My heart pounded if I so much as looked out the window.

I went whole weeks without seeing another human being. Some days I didn't bother to leave the couch, I'd simply piss in a bottle.

There were times when nothing seemed real anymore. When I'd watch what was happening on the news and the whole thing seemed like a nightmare. But I never woke up from it.

I felt like a ghost observing my own non-existence. Everything—the eating, the shitting, all the other mundane rituals of daily life—felt completely arbitrary.

You're going mad in here, I'd think to myself. You need to get out of this apartment and do something.

I'd get as far as the front door, but once I opened it everything would fall apart. One of my neighbors would shuffle past with a bicycle or a bunch of groceries or maybe even a gun, for all I knew, and the dizziness would return.